I forced a smile and said, “I was just kidding about the putt-putt. I’m a really good golfer. In fact, they named a tournament in Augusta after me.”
He did a double take, then finally cracked a smile and said, “They named the Masters after you, eh? Damn. You must be good.”
“Not compared to my husband. Perhaps you’ve heard of him…British Open?”
He smiled broadly now. “Your husband’s name is British Open?”
I nodded. “Friends call him Brit, or B.O. for short.”
He laughed. He dropped me off at the clubhouse and asked whether I wanted my cart at the first tee or the practice range. Needing all the practice I could get, I opted for the latter. He was still chuckling as he drove away with my clubs.
Somewhat to my surprise, there was no doorman to the clubhouse. However, there was also no sign over the counter stating the price of a round of golf. They may as well have put up a notice that read: IF YOU HAVE TO ASK. YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO PLAY.
The man behind the counter, also wearing a yellow shirt, though I couldn’t see his pants, greeted me and checked off my name for my two o’clock tee-time. I braced myself.
“That’ll be one hundred dollars, ma’am, plus thirty for the cart.”
I stifled a gasp. Talk about greens fees! I handed over my Visa card. Good thing I had deposited my check from the magazine. One hundred and thirty dollars for an afternoon of golf. And all for the privilege of playing with three men I’d never met who made thousand-dollar bets on cartoons, one of whom could well be a murderer.
Just as he was about to hand me my receipt, he hesitated and looked again at his schedule. “Uh-oh. It looks like there’s been a slight mistake. You’re supposed to go off at two-oh-eight. The scheduler put you down with Mr. Mueller’s group at two, when he meant to put you with Mrs. Mueller’s threesome, the men’s wives.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “I’m sure you don’t mind waiting a few more minutes to golf with other women.”
That explained why I had no problem arranging out of the blue to play in Preston’s former group, who’d patronized this swank club for years.
I met his fake smile with one of my own, but my pulse was racing. If my group was changed now, not only had I angered my husband for nothing, but my investigation would come to a grinding halt.
“I’ll stick with the original tee-time. I don’t mind golfing with men. Some of my best friends are men. I even married one.”
He started to protest, so I continued, “I’ll just tee off at two as scheduled, but if I’m slowing the group down, I’ll drop back and join their wives. Could I get a small bucket of practice balls, please?”
He stared at the schedule, then at me. I tried to hold his gaze with confidence. My suggestion had been perfectly reasonable. But I was beginning to realize I was farther out of my element than ever before. At least I’d once been a teenager; I had never been wealthy, never pretended nor wanted to be a country-club jet-setter, let alone one who would fit in with an already-bonded male threesome.
“Look, Ms. Masters. Moving you to another group is in your own best interest. You don’t want to play with those guys. They’re out for blood. We don’t want any more scenes.”
“What kind of a scene are we talking about here?”
He snorted. “Couple weeks ago, we nearly had to get the police out here to subdue the black guy. So what do you say we put you with the other ladies, eh?”
Yikes! “I’d still rather—”
He lifted up a palm. “Since this was our mistake, I can’t force you. But I’m warning you that I will tell the marshal to keep an eye on you to make sure you’re keeping pace.”
He handed me a gold metal token and said, “The ball machine and buckets are up on the range. You get fifteen balls per token. That’ll be five dollars.”
I shelled out another five dollars, a relative bargain. Great. So now I was going to have a marshal following me around with a cattle prod. Nothing like a nice, relaxing afternoon of golf with a possible murderer or two. First, though, I needed to learn more about the “scene.”
“I read about Preston Saunders’s murder. He was a member here, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. Quite a tragedy.” He reached for something under the counter. “Here. You might want to take a look at our course rules.” He handed me a three-by-five card, along with a scorecard that showed the layout of the eighteen-hole course. “Note that we specifically state—” he pointed on my card—“no more than two practice swings. You’re certain you won’t slow down play, right? Because I’m serious about notifying the marshal.”
“I’ll golf just as fast as I possibly can,” I replied testily. “You almost called the police to break up a fight among these men?”
He merely smiled and said, “Have a nice afternoon.” Then he turned his back on me.
So much for getting information from him. I went outside, where the aroma of newly mowed grass failed to cheer me. So far I hated this place. The basic attitude of the personnel was: Gimme your money and get outta here.
No moving walkways or rickshaws took me to the practice range. I decided to take a couple of my clubs and leave the cart by the path. Though there was room for about a dozen golfers, only four were currently using the range. They were all older men, decked out in full golf regalia: primary-colored Izod sweaters and short-sleeved shirts, perfectly pressed cotton slacks, brightly colored tams. How long could someone dressed like that last on a sidewalk in New York?
Having guessed this place would have a dress code, I had borrowed by husband’s blue Izod sweater and wore tan slacks and a purple polo-shirt with a collar. Except for my not wearing a silly hat, I looked the part. However, my first two practice shots were worm-burners. My swing had better improve fast, or I was in trouble. I would be courtmartialed; they would rip the little alligator off my sweater and send me home in disgrace.
Halfway through my bucket, I spotted the “valet” loading another bag onto my cart. My partners must have arrived. The set of clubs he was loading belonged to a handsome, powerfully built African-American man who looked to be in his early forties. This must be the “black guy” they had almost called in the police to “subdue.” A second golf cart with two other men drove up. They promptly got out of the cart and engaged the staff member in an animated discussion. Since they all turned their backs on me after a quick glance my way, it was a fairly safe bet that they weren’t thrilled with the prospect of my joining them.
If a staff member happened to mention my last name, I was in trouble. Having someone named Masters show up shortly after Preston had won a thousand bucks apiece from them by claiming to be Mike Masters would be quite a coincidence.
Before their discussion went any further, I trotted toward them and introduced myself as Molly, thanking them for so generously allowing me to join their group. They were all smiles, and the staff member wandered off while the four of us were shaking hands.
Chase Groves was the African-American sharing my cart. He seemed quite nice, and I had a hard time imagining him publicly losing control. Yet I felt an instant dislike for Hank Mueller, a trim, middle-aged man with black hair and a mustache. He resembled Snidely Whiplash from cartoons, but with a shorter mustache. His forearms had such thick hair I suspected his entire body was hairy as well. His deep-set eyes shifted to his partners as he shook my hand, as if to say, “One of you guys tell this chick she can’t join us.”
Richard Worthington was a potbellied, older man with a booming voice and a false cheeriness as he said, “Well, Molly. I sure hope we can keep up with you.”
That was my cue to say that I hoped I could keep up with them, at which time one of them would suggest I join their wives.
“Thanks, Richard. I’m sure we’ll all do our best.” He exchanged looks with Hank. The two of them got into their cart.
Chase then got into the driver’s seat of our cart. Because I could not hit nearly as far as most men, my one hope of preventing myself from slowing play was to drive fa
st. So I said to Chase, “Is it all right if I take the wheel? I love driving golf carts with a passion. It’s the only vehicle I know of where you can floor the accelerator and not get ticketed.”
With a weak smile, Chase slid over and grabbed the bar that supported the car’s roof. The starter waved us onto to a tee-box, and I followed the first cart, slamming on the brakes to jerk us to a halt just behind them.
We all got out. “Have you been golfing much, Molly?” Hank asked as he selected his driver from his bag.
“This is my first time out since last summer,” I replied honestly.
“Oh, really?” Hank asked in a tone that made it clear he did not deem me fit to clean the spikes on his shoes.
“Ah, look, Chase, Richard. Our wives have arrived. It’s just the three of them playing today.”
Again, I opted to pretend to be oblivious and scanned the fairway up ahead. At least the women were running a little late. If they got to the tee-box before the three of us hit our drives, there was no way I’d be allowed to stick with the men.
Richard cleared his throat loudly and asked me, “What’s your handicap?”
If I admitted my handicap was higher than my age, that would be the end of this. I smiled and answered, “Two precocious children and a grouchy husband. Plus my left leg’s shorter than my right, so I tend to hook my shots.”
He didn’t smile.
The men teed off first. They were going off the championship tees, which only the very best golfers used. The three of them hit excellent drives. I would be hopelessly outclassed. I’d be lucky to stay within three strokes per hole of these men.
Knowing that after a ten-month layoff I’d be too rusty to use my driver, I grabbed my three-wood and trotted down the tiers to the women’s tee. The men followed in the carts. To my chagrin, all three got out. They stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the women’s tee-box.
No one spoke, but I could hear female laughter in the distance behind me. The wives were nearing. If I loused up my first shot, that would be it. The men would send me back to join the women, and I’d never be able to ask about the bet they’d made with Preston.
“Keep your head down and take a nice easy swing,” Hank Mueller offered just as I took my stance.
I hadn’t taken a single shot and already he was giving me advice. This was so typical. Never would one man tell another man to “take a nice easy swing.” Yet I’d probably golfed with more than thirty men over the years, and to the best of my recollection, every single one had given me advice. Even those I could outplay.
The imaginary voice of that British announcer who’s always whispering into the microphone prior to putts on TV now whispered in my ear. “The pressure is on Ms. Masters to make a good shot here. The gallery is holding its collective breath. Now, take a nice easy swing, and for God’s sake, don’t screw up!”
I took a ferocious swing. The ball went up, up…straight up. It dropped almost directly to my right, just a few yards off the tee, and splashed into some sort of mucky marsh where they were apparently cultivating water snakes or salamanders.
Though I wished the golf gremlins would come throttle me with my clubs till I was out of my misery once and for all, I turned and called to my partners, “Oops. That’s an unplayable lie if there ever was one. I’ll tee up another one and try again. Feel free to talk amongst yourselves.”
“Say, Molly,” Hank said, “I have an idea.”
Before he could suggest I let them golf by themselves, I blurted out, “How would you like to make a little bet?”
“A bet?” Hank repeated, grinning at Chase and Richard.
“That’s right,” I went on. “If I make a par on this hole, not counting that first shot, I get to stay in your foursome. If I don’t I’ll drop back and join the women.”
Hank glanced at the sign on the women’s tee, which showed it was 350 yards to the green. He chuckled and said, “Sure, Molly. Good luck.”
Richard winked at Hank, who grinned and shook his head. Chase, however, gave me a reassuring smile. “Take as much time as you want.”
If only I were at mid-season form, I would stand a 10 or 20 percent chance of making a par. As it was, my odds were more like one in a hundred. I offered up a quick prayer to puh-lease either send down a bolt of lightning and electrocute me on the spot, or prevent me from humiliating myself again. This time I hit the drive of my life: 220 yards, right down the middle of the fairway. I pretended not to be shocked, although that outdistanced the second-best drive of my life by at least twenty yards.
“There’s a golf shot!” said Richard, using the tones of admiration that men use for sports talk and women reserve for cute babies.
“You got all of that one,” Hank said.
“Nice shot, Molly,” Chase said as I took a seat beside him.
I said, “Thanks,” and floored the cart.
I couldn’t gamble on continued shot-making of this caliber. When a miracle happens, you count your blessings, not demand that it recur immediately thereafter. I’d better ask some questions now, before we finished the first hole.
“So, Chase. I heard your usual playing partner, Preston Saunders, died recently. That must have been quite a shock.”
Chase furrowed his brow, but replied, “You never expect someone you know to die. Especially not when they’re only thirty-seven.”
Up ahead, Hank and Richard had pulled off the path alongside my ball and were waiting for us. I eased up on the accelerator to garner more time to talk with Chase. “Did he die of natural causes?”
“Not unless you consider a gunshot to the chest a natural cause. But then, with Preston Saunders, you could consider that something of a natural consequence.”
“What do you mean?” We reached the others. I stepped on the brake.
“The guy was a real SOB,” Chase answered under his breath. “It finally caught up to him.”
Despite my fine drive, my ball was farthest from the green, so according to golf etiquette and common sense, I had to go first. Richard hopped out of his cart and came over to me. “So,” he said in his booming voice. “Looks like you’re about one-thirty away. What club are you planning on using?”
Asking an opponent about their choice of clubs was not only bad form, but against the rules. He was trying to throw off my concentration. “My five-wood,” I answered honestly but with a grin, realizing he had just made a tactical error. Trying to needle me was the best way to inspire me to play better.
I hit another wonderful shot. I was on the front edge of the green in two strokes! Now all I had to do was two-putt on a totally unfamiliar green, with no practice. I looked at Richard, who was resting his crossed arms on his bloated belly.
He gave me a wink. That was Richard’s second wink in the last five minutes. Maybe he had a facial tic. “Not bad. You left yourself one hell of a putt, though. Downhill. These greens are super fast, too.” He walked back over to Hank, said something I couldn’t catch, then they drove the short distance ahead to their balls.
Chase, who was waiting on our cart for me, was chuckling. He watched me start the motor, then said, “By golly, Miss Molly. You’re trying to con us. You’re fresh off the women’s circuit, aren’t you?”
I couldn’t help but smile, my first sincere one since I’d arrived. He was really handsome, his dark skin accentuating his perfect teeth.
“No, I’m a decent golfer, but that’s all. I get the feeling your partners don’t want me around, though.”
“We’ve been playing together for a few years now. You know how it is.”
“So the four of you were pretty close?”
A muscle in his jaw tightened. We’d already traveled the short distance to his ball, and he managed to escape the cart without answering. He took a long time selecting an iron. Hank, waiting near his own ball, called out, “Come on, Chase. Getting you to hurry is like pulling teeth.”
Chase immediately hollered back, “Ah, ship it, Hank.”
This seemed like the
ir standard joke. Was Chase a dentist? And was Richard in the shipping business? Even if I didn’t make my par, maybe I could talk to them at their businesses, if I could learn where they worked.
Chase hit an excellent approach shot and “stuck the green.” Just then, up drove a skinny old man in a white cart with the word MARSHAL on the side in big black letters.
I winced. Not now! Please, don’t blow my cover and say my last name!
The marshal stopped, touched the brim of his pith helmet in a cowboy-style greeting, then spat out a wad of chewing tobacco. Perhaps he was taking his job title a tad too seriously. In a lazy drawl, he murmured, “How’s it goin’, Mr. Worthington, Mr. Mueller?”
“Fine,” they answered simultaneously.
He nodded, then turned his cart around. For a moment, I hoped he would ignore Chase Groves and me, but then he looked back and called out, “How ‘bout you, Mrs. Masters? Enjoying the course?”
“Immensely,” I answered through my clenched teeth.
As the marshal drove away, Richard and Hank exchanged a look of surprise, then eyed me.
They both hit their balls onto the green. They shared a quiet conversation in their cart as they headed to the green.
Discussing the coincidence of last names, no doubt. Once they realized my connection to Preston through my cartoon, that would be it for eliciting information from the two of them. Chase seemed infinitely more friendly, though. If he was indeed a dentist, I could schedule an appointment. I shuddered involuntarily. An unnecessary dentist appointment? Yeech! I had to be out of my mind!
Chase let me get behind the wheel again. He edged as far away from me as possible on the seat. Ignoring his body language, I asked, “Are you a dentist?”
“How’d you know that?”
“The joke that Hank made. I’m guessing that he’s in the shipping business.”
Death Comes to Suburbia (Book 2 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 13